August 21, 2011

There is no wasted revolution that brings peace to strangers, light to desperation. Circle the granite wagons. Only separated will we crack and turn to ash. Spin the screw tight. Smother bigotry and hate. Talk is cheap when watered with weakness and slouched spirit. There remains one chance to cleanse the soul at hand.

Shuffled steps of comfy velcro walking shoes eager for someplace new to go (other than down the hall for dry bologna sandwiches and peel-top puddings), enter through the heavy pretend oak door with the cool silver handle. “Let’s make an adventure of this”, soft beige right says to soft beige left.

In the seat across the lobby, meticulous-man sits upright and soldier ready, just waiting for the call to come. “Mr. Jackson, the doctor will see you now.” His paperwork neatly packaged, alphabetically, chronologically, by size, by importance.

Two seats north and at right angles are mother and daughter. Two-for-one perms of curly gray and grayer sit quietly, clutching suitcase size pocketbooks filled with kleenex and pill bottles. Small talk of, Did you hear about? Did you see the news? ping-pong on and on. It’s 8:45, the sun barely up.

Perturbed youngster of 38 sits impatient with phone in hand, eyes glued to the screen as if a text from the president was overdue.

Muffled giggles and pacing float from behind the neck-high laminate counter. Overheard conversations of day off have-to’s and vacation want-to’s take a trained ear to decipher.

Lottery winner of exam room #3 sits in quiet repose, head slowly nodding and bobbing like a sleepy baby in a high chair.

As I sit and contemplate how many rare diseases are spread by the ratty, cover-rumpled magazines piled high in the corner, a softened calm overtakes me and a gentle grin takes place.

August 14, 2011

Fishing hat, hunting hat, weekend-work-around-the-house hat, there was usually a small partridge feather or trout fly attached to the band. The hat's soft threads were stained with the remnants of Pharaoh Lake and the Cedar River Flow. Bring it close and smell the trout biting, the black-fly bug dope, and the hint of a Stony Creek buck. It was crushable and tailor-fit snug. If you held the hat to your ear you could hear a small outboard motor putt, putt, putting across an Adirondack lake in May. That hat savored miles of hardwood forest, foraging animals, and free floating ducks. It covered the head-of-the-class; my father.

Raining Iguanas

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Raining Iguanas

About Me

Can’t carry a tune or lend you money.
Worked as a real life milkman and nine-fingered machine operator.
Prefers paper or plastic.
Loves meeting strange people in normal places.
Sends poetry and stories to anyone who won’t listen.
Dream is ongoing